Terry’s abducted army of tattooed swine was stirring in the back of his little backfiring bread truck. He took a few slugs from the emergency whiskey to calm his nerves, meanwhile glancing at his side mirror to watch for the inevitable police pursuit.

After loading the tender piggies into the nicked vehicle, Terry'd psyched himself up for the final phase of his revenge assault. He’d rammed through the wrought iron back service entrance with the truck, triggering alarms, sending signals to the law that the zoo’s peaceful early morning tranquility had been disturbed, in this case, with gleeful vehicular vandalism.

Now, speeding towards downtown, Terry hoped his goal of creating a shameful spectacle would succeed. Careening recklessly down the road in a shit smelling truck with a severely damaged front grille (that gate had put up a mighty resistance) and a radio blasting easy listening favorites at air raid siren decibels, Terry began to really get into the spirit.

Terry drank more whiskey. He was so excited he puked in his mouth a little.

The pigs were waking up, and they were pissed off. Celine Dion or Peabo Bryson or whichever mediocre heel was keening on the radio had made for a rude awakening, one certainly outside of the pigs’ carefully domesticated patterns. They were confused, fearful, and aching from their stylish new tats. They expressed their feelings by crapping all over. A lot. Even on each other. As Terry wheeled sharply around corners, the pigs and poop were shuffled and stirred, creating a nasty tsunami of pigshit gumbo.

Terry couldn’t hear the sirens over the awful noise emanating from the radio, but the blue and red flashes ricocheting from his side mirror caught his attention quickly. Terry put the pedal to the metal.

More and more police joined his rearguard escort. One cop leaned out a squad car passenger window with a bullhorn.

“Pull Over! I repeat, pull over your vehicle! You are breaking the law!”

Terry flipped him the bird. He was almost to his destination. He turned down his radio, opened his cellphone, and dialed information. When he had his info, he placed a call.

“Yeah, Channel Eight News? That you? Good. Hear those sirens? I’m getting chased by police! Got about seven cars after me. Yep. Yeah, for real! Shit man, this ain’t no prank! Look out your window! I’m comin up Sandoval Avenue right now! Yeah! Get your reporters to Inkhead. Better hurry if you wanna beat the morning rush. Traffic’s getting heavy and I’m fuckin it up even worse. I’m fixin up a hell of a lead story for you tonight, my man! Send helicopters, too!”

Inkhead Promotions was located downtown, smack dab across from city hall. Minutes later, flanked by police at both sides and copters above, Terry wheeled right up the steps at city hall. He made it about halfway up before the stone steps caused him to lose control. He crashed into a handrail.

Realizing the cops would be upon him in seconds, he shook off the impact shock and scrambled into the back of the truck.

“Hey there, ya little bastards! Time to frolic!”

Terry climbed over the pigs. The combination of the ascent angle and the bouncing caused by the steps had slammed all the pigs against the back doors of the truck. Terry pushed his hands through the pigwad and shoved them aside. They were bleating with terror. Terry reached the handle and turned it.

Outside the cops had reached the truck. They were surrounding it, guns drawn, approaching cautiously as they tried to discern the condition of the reckless driver. Terry had cranked the Jon Secada back up to full volume after hanging up with Channel Eight, and none of the police were at all prepared for the pink and brown deluge when Terry opened the truck doors. There’d been no time for them to stop and think about the zoo connection. Pigs came tumbling like cereal from a box, their weight slamming the doors wide. Terry fell with them, unable to grab anything that wasn’t slimed over in slippery pig feces.

One cop lost his composure and began to fire, leading others to follow. One pig took a bullet in the McDonald’s golden arches. Another took one in the head. Yet another bullet missed live flesh entirely, pinging off metal inside the truck.

“Cease fire! Cease fire, goddamnit!”

Terry sat up, bruised and dazed. Frenzied swine were fleeing in panic in all directions. Up the steps to city hall, towards the street, down the sidewalk. They were everywhere. Terry was joyous.

“I did it! Hey! I give up! I win! I surrender!”

Still sitting, Terry threw his arms in the air.

“I feel sorry for whichever one of you fellas has to put me in the back of his cruiser! I smell like high heaven!”

None of the cops knew whether to tackle pigs, shoot them, or go for Terry. Chaos was unleashed, and there was no simple off switch. Terry had made one hell of a mess.

Early arrivals for work were watching the scene instead of entering Inkhead, City Hall, or any of the other nearby establishments. Hell, a show like this one didn’t come along very often. It wouldn’t do to miss it. They stayed. They watched. They dodged angry swine.

“Attention citizens! I have tattooed two dozen pigs with logos! This is an official protest action! These logos are the same icons of commercialism that sponsor Inkhead Productions’ annual forehead lottery! This lottery is disgusting and depraved! I demand this immoral practice cease immediately! I demand that Inkhead close their doors forever and let us keep our foreheads clean! No more debasing of human flesh to sell lawnmowers! Plus, they turned me down! What the fuck, right? My name is Terry Sobaski, and I have spoken!”

I am reading the Sun Times and just read an article about a homeless man who was arrested for stealing a sheep from an Arkansas zoo. He took it away in a trash bag and told police he was a doctor and the sheep was sick.